


Daylight

by elena_stidham



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Immunity, Injury Recovery, Near Death, Survival, fixed it, post mid-season 8 finale, the author is in denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 11:35:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12983229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elena_stidham/pseuds/elena_stidham
Summary: "Man alone chimes the hour. And, because of this, man alone suffers a paralyzing fear that no other creature endures. A fear of time running out."-- Mitch Albom





	Daylight

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS FOR: SPOILERS FOR S8E8, language, heavy themes of death, and what I hope will happen next because if not I’m actually going to quit the show I’m dead serious   
> SONGS USED TO GET IN THE MOOD: That last little bit of music at the end of the episode – you know that xylophone bit.   
> I haven’t written anything for The Walking Dead yet, but this idea came to my head while listening to this music and unable to cope with the fact that Scott M. Gimple is a shit writer this season and I decided to do something about it. I’m just very salty and I have a lot of feelings and I need to let this out of my head though my hands before I just kinda lose my mind. I hope it’s not bad – this is my first time writing for TWD and I hope I did pretty good! Thank you for reading!  
> -Elena

He waited.

Despite the pain in his chest and the lingering image of the tears in their eyes, he waited. He waited for his release – for the time when his body would give in to numbness and he would succumb to the pending fate that he could hear ticking only mere hours away.

The shortest he had seen had been no more than seven minutes. The longest: 24 hours and eleven seconds. It had already been at least fifteen – it had to have – from the bite during sunlight and then lingering infection by late afternoon, he knew that his time was right around the corner.

It was a sadistic countdown; his lack of power draining by the minute with each tear-filled goodbye that will continue to be ringing in his ears after he’s buried.

He was just a fucking _kid._

It wasn’t fair. He knew that this world wasn’t, but he felt stupid that thinking maybe his mother was right in that he’d make it out somehow. That he’d just survive. That he’d fucking _live._

He should have known, really. It’s not like he didn’t see it coming. It just really sucked – waiting out the last of his small and limping life while he had to leave behind friends and family until they die just around the corner. It’s _shitty._ This _life_ was shitty. It was just a matter of fact.

That didn’t mean that he wanted to live in it. After all, he was what, twelve, when the apocalypse hit? An awkward age. Everything already feels like the end of the world then, but with the end of the world actually yanking at his feet, he felt himself grow up overnight.

Everyone would say he didn’t deserve it – and maybe he didn’t – but what if he did? What if he just couldn’t save the world? What if he could only save _his_ world? If that was his only purpose, then he fulfilled it, and he was ready to go.

But he didn’t want to go.

Instead, he waited.

He waited until he saw the sunlight rise and crack through the sky beneath the heat. He waited until the moon was gone and the next thing he knew it was time to weep. He didn’t himself; it was his father – it had been on and off since when.

He insisted he waited until the end of his little world came – that he wanted to fall asleep, and never wake up. He asked for a swift sharpness to make sure he never reopens his eyes after they close forever. It was more than a request, more than a beg, more than anything he had said before and above all: it was a death wish – to let him stay alive. He was going to wait as long as possible if it meant holding his father’s hand just a little bit longer.

They hadn’t let go.

They weren’t going to let go. Not until it was time. Until he decides that he’s going to lay down and close his eyes when he finally feels himself running his fingers along the Scythe. They were going to hold on tightly and wait – and even after he would have to remove his hand, he was never going to let go.

He wished he watched his sister grow up. He wished that he’d see an end to the end. He wished that there was more outside the walls of Alexandria other than just human prisons and cold. The more he wished, the more he wanted to live, and the longer he waited. He waited, until he noticed that the daylight was drawing to a close and the lingering thought in the back of his mind suddenly became hopeful.

It’s probably just a fluke, to be honest. It was probably just some kind of fuck up in the air and that night-time came early, or maybe a day hadn’t passed at all. Yet there were stars – a twinkling in the sky that started to reflect in the gloss coating his eyes. Maybe the gloss wasn’t the infection. Maybe it was just tears. Maybe he was hallucinating.

Maybe this is what dying felt like.

He waited. He waited until the edges of the wound start to scab itself up and the blood around the bite didn’t begin to foam or darken. It started to harden.

By now he could hear murmurs and voices of hope across the silence; theories that maybe he just had this _click_ in his DNA that would save the rest of the world. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps given the location and the circumstances the infection was just taking its sweet ass time, but he waited it out anyway.

He remembered falling asleep once, for a little while, and a hand on his chest brought open his eyes. His father sighed in relief and slumped back, the shaking knife clinking to the ground when he saw they had just a little bit more time. He had never felt so happy in his life for time. Then again: it was only a matter of time.

Time, time, and time again he had seen these exact bites take people during any time of the month, lasting any duration within a day and by the end of the year the cycle would continue with a whole new set of those less lucky than a boy with one eye. It was vicious, it had no meaning and he couldn’t bear who was next in the world after he was done. He knew it was going to happen, after all.

But why did it take so long with him? By now he would have been buried – _should_ have been buried – and everyone would have moved on to take on the war as if he was a mere casualty to begin with. Sure, he would have been a new and particular heart-breaking driving force, but he couldn’t understand why all of a sudden he was being shown a new kind of mercy.

What _was_ mercy? Was it simply sparing? But perhaps, would sparing be a new kind of painful residency? A horrific existence – hunted for value instead of for the art of war – but maybe this was the kind of sadistic shit that would like him too.

This wasn’t mercy.

Just kill him already.

But still, he waited. He waited until the next daylight start to dawn by, and that’s when he felt tears in his eyes. He had said his goodbyes. He had waited. He filled his purpose. He was _ready._ Then again maybe, just maybe, his ready wasn’t ready enough.

By day three Carl’s bite had completely scabbed over and _healing_. The fever that attacked his system started to alleviate, and he felt himself start to stand. Holy shit, he was almost _walking._ But was he human? Could he thinking he was still alive only to be swiftly murdered because of his attempts to bite? He didn’t feel hungry. He didn’t feel that at all. In fact, the mere thought of putting something in his mouth brought vomit past his lips and along concrete below.

He waited. He waited. And he waited. He waited until he couldn’t wait anymore.

And he still waited for his turn.


End file.
